fic: It's My Birthday, Too, Yeah (Supernatural; Dean, Jess)
Yeah, I don't know either. It just sort of ambushed me. For barely_bean, if she wants it, on the occasion of her natal day.
It's My Birthday, Too, Yeah
Supernatural; Dean, Jess (Sam/Jess); pre-series, no spoilers; 1,330 words
"Happy birthday," he says, leaning in so he can be heard over the music. "It's my birthday, too."
Thanks to luzdeestrellas for handholding. All errors are mine.
***
It's My Birthday, Too, Yeah
Dean's not sure why he tortures himself like this. He doesn't think he's a masochist, but he's never been able to let his wounds heal without picking the scabs, and this wound is bigger than most--the biggest, really, since Mom died. And he and Dad are still picking at that one, so at least he comes by it honestly.
He sits at the bar and thinks about getting stinking drunk and just showing up at Sam's door. Dean knows where he lives now (and who he's living with), nice apartment complex--nicer than any place they stayed while growing up, except for when they visited Caleb or Bobby or Pastor Jim--and he doesn't think Sam would slam the door in his face. Sam's the all-time champ at holding grudges, but this one isn't really against him, it's against Dad, and Dad didn't even make the trip this time. This is Dean's birthday present to himself, and he's fucked if he needs Dad looking at him like he's pathetic for wanting to make sure Sam is okay, for wanting to make things right, to bring the family back together again. Like Dad doesn't want the same things and is just too damn stubborn to admit it. He and Sam are more alike than they realize, so alike they can't even see it, and it makes Dean crazy sometimes. But it also gives him hope that they can eventually fix everything that's wrong with their family.
If what Dean's seen at Sam's apartment is any indication, Sam's started putting together his own little family, and Dean wants to be part of that, too, if Sam would let him.
He downs a shot of tequila and eyes the frat boys scornfully. A fight would feel good, but it's not going to scratch the itch he's got tonight. There aren't many chicks around yet, though a contingent of artsy types is hanging out at a corner table, and one dark-eyed girl wearing eighteen-hole Docs and a plaid miniskirt has been shooting glances his way; he does love those boots, but it's early yet and he's not ready to commit.
He's on his third beer when they walk in, five or six of 'em, California blonde and tanned, chattering like birds, their laughter drowning out the crappy emo music for a few seconds. They huddle around the other end of the bar, calling for the bartender.
"Birthday girl here," one of them says, pointing to the tallest of the bunch, a blonde with legs that go on for days. Dean takes a moment to admire the view before he looks at her face, and when he does, he chokes on a mouthful of beer.
***
The bartender sets the shot, the salt, and the lime in front of her and says, "From the guy at the end of the bar."
Jess looks down the bar to see a guy holding an identical shot, his gaze never leaving her face. He's pretty much the hottest guy she's ever seen in person, and when Anne and Krissy get a look at him, they can't stop giggling and saying, "Oh my God!"
Even though she knows she shouldn't--she has a hot boyfriend already, and she loves him to death--she raises her glass in salute, licks some salt off her hand, and downs the shot in unison with the guy. The tequila burns going down, and she drops her gaze before sucking on the lime; she's not trying to pick him up, and she doesn't want to send any mixed signals.
She's taking another sip of beer, trying to wash away the taste, when Krissy lets out a high-pitched squeak and grabs her arm tightly, long, pink nails digging into her bicep.
"Ow, what--" She turns on her stool to see the hot guy--even hotter up close, green eyes and full lips and, Jesus Christ, he has the most adorable freckles--standing in front of her.
He raises his bottle of beer, clinks it against hers, which dangles loosely from suddenly nerveless fingers.
"Happy birthday," he says, leaning in so he can be heard over the music. "It's my birthday, too."
She can't help but laugh, because as pick-up lines go, it's pretty dire, but with his looks, he probably doesn't need good ones.
"Happy birthday," she answers, smiling, but hoping he'll go away.
"You could invite me to join your party," he says, his voice a low, rough purr in her ear, meant to make her shiver and doing a great job, "or we could have a private party later..."
"We could," she agrees, still smiling, though her voice is deadly serious, "but we won't. I have a boyfriend, and we're very happy together."
He leans back, makes a show of looking around, then leans in again. "I don't see him here."
"He's working, but he'll be by later."
"Working? You'd think the guy would take a night off, take his girl someplace special."
She sits up straight now, not joking anymore, because she's heard this from her friends, as well, and they should know better. Sam works because he has to, and she respects that, loves him for not being lazy or bitter, for trying to make something of himself.
"You don't know anything about him, or me, so I suggest you leave before he shows up. He could totally kick your ass."
The guy laughs, and amazingly, he sounds happy, not upset. "I don't think so, sweetheart."
"Even if he couldn't," she answers, skeptical, because she knows he so totally could, "I could." She turns back to the bar, then looks over her shoulder and gives him a fake sweet smile like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. "And don't call me sweetheart."
The smile he gives her now is wider, more genuine, lights up his whole face, and for a second he reminds her of Sam, the way Sam's smile is like sunlight breaking through clouds, and how when she first met him, she'd had to work hard for it, but it was a reward well worth the effort.
The guy tips his bottle in salute, drains it, and swaggers away like he didn't just get shot down.
Jess shakes her head. Guys are so weird.
When Sam finally arrives, an hour later, she doesn't mention it, would have forgotten it already (the memory is already fuzzy from all the free shots, and it will only get worse as the night goes on; in the morning, she won't remember much at all) except her friends won't shut up about the guy. Krissy spills the story breathlessly, so amused that she's not even jealous that the guy didn't look her way once. When she's done, Sam freezes for a split second, and then laughs, long and hard.
"You totally could have kicked his ass," he says, and kisses her, with love and laughter and determination, everything they are together, and it's the best birthday present he could give her.
***
Dean waits in the car, watching, until Sam arrives. He's tempted to go over, say hello, say something, anything, but he doesn't. He hates to admit it, even to himself, but he isn't sure how Sam would react. Or maybe it's that he's too sure of how Sam will react, and it wouldn't be well. He's not sure which is worse.
Sam strolls into the bar like he owns the joint, like he knows he's got a gorgeous woman waiting inside, and Dean feels a small burst of warmth in his chest--pride, love, or some combination of the two. He watches the door for a long time before he takes off.
He's miles away when his phone rings. He flips it open to hear laughter, and then, "Happy birthday, man. And she could so totally kick your ass." Sam hangs up before Dean can say anything, but Dean thinks it may be the best birthday present he's ever gotten.
end
*
12/13/06
***
I love feedback like a kid loves birthday cake.
***
It's My Birthday, Too, Yeah
Supernatural; Dean, Jess (Sam/Jess); pre-series, no spoilers; 1,330 words
"Happy birthday," he says, leaning in so he can be heard over the music. "It's my birthday, too."
Thanks to luzdeestrellas for handholding. All errors are mine.
***
It's My Birthday, Too, Yeah
Dean's not sure why he tortures himself like this. He doesn't think he's a masochist, but he's never been able to let his wounds heal without picking the scabs, and this wound is bigger than most--the biggest, really, since Mom died. And he and Dad are still picking at that one, so at least he comes by it honestly.
He sits at the bar and thinks about getting stinking drunk and just showing up at Sam's door. Dean knows where he lives now (and who he's living with), nice apartment complex--nicer than any place they stayed while growing up, except for when they visited Caleb or Bobby or Pastor Jim--and he doesn't think Sam would slam the door in his face. Sam's the all-time champ at holding grudges, but this one isn't really against him, it's against Dad, and Dad didn't even make the trip this time. This is Dean's birthday present to himself, and he's fucked if he needs Dad looking at him like he's pathetic for wanting to make sure Sam is okay, for wanting to make things right, to bring the family back together again. Like Dad doesn't want the same things and is just too damn stubborn to admit it. He and Sam are more alike than they realize, so alike they can't even see it, and it makes Dean crazy sometimes. But it also gives him hope that they can eventually fix everything that's wrong with their family.
If what Dean's seen at Sam's apartment is any indication, Sam's started putting together his own little family, and Dean wants to be part of that, too, if Sam would let him.
He downs a shot of tequila and eyes the frat boys scornfully. A fight would feel good, but it's not going to scratch the itch he's got tonight. There aren't many chicks around yet, though a contingent of artsy types is hanging out at a corner table, and one dark-eyed girl wearing eighteen-hole Docs and a plaid miniskirt has been shooting glances his way; he does love those boots, but it's early yet and he's not ready to commit.
He's on his third beer when they walk in, five or six of 'em, California blonde and tanned, chattering like birds, their laughter drowning out the crappy emo music for a few seconds. They huddle around the other end of the bar, calling for the bartender.
"Birthday girl here," one of them says, pointing to the tallest of the bunch, a blonde with legs that go on for days. Dean takes a moment to admire the view before he looks at her face, and when he does, he chokes on a mouthful of beer.
***
The bartender sets the shot, the salt, and the lime in front of her and says, "From the guy at the end of the bar."
Jess looks down the bar to see a guy holding an identical shot, his gaze never leaving her face. He's pretty much the hottest guy she's ever seen in person, and when Anne and Krissy get a look at him, they can't stop giggling and saying, "Oh my God!"
Even though she knows she shouldn't--she has a hot boyfriend already, and she loves him to death--she raises her glass in salute, licks some salt off her hand, and downs the shot in unison with the guy. The tequila burns going down, and she drops her gaze before sucking on the lime; she's not trying to pick him up, and she doesn't want to send any mixed signals.
She's taking another sip of beer, trying to wash away the taste, when Krissy lets out a high-pitched squeak and grabs her arm tightly, long, pink nails digging into her bicep.
"Ow, what--" She turns on her stool to see the hot guy--even hotter up close, green eyes and full lips and, Jesus Christ, he has the most adorable freckles--standing in front of her.
He raises his bottle of beer, clinks it against hers, which dangles loosely from suddenly nerveless fingers.
"Happy birthday," he says, leaning in so he can be heard over the music. "It's my birthday, too."
She can't help but laugh, because as pick-up lines go, it's pretty dire, but with his looks, he probably doesn't need good ones.
"Happy birthday," she answers, smiling, but hoping he'll go away.
"You could invite me to join your party," he says, his voice a low, rough purr in her ear, meant to make her shiver and doing a great job, "or we could have a private party later..."
"We could," she agrees, still smiling, though her voice is deadly serious, "but we won't. I have a boyfriend, and we're very happy together."
He leans back, makes a show of looking around, then leans in again. "I don't see him here."
"He's working, but he'll be by later."
"Working? You'd think the guy would take a night off, take his girl someplace special."
She sits up straight now, not joking anymore, because she's heard this from her friends, as well, and they should know better. Sam works because he has to, and she respects that, loves him for not being lazy or bitter, for trying to make something of himself.
"You don't know anything about him, or me, so I suggest you leave before he shows up. He could totally kick your ass."
The guy laughs, and amazingly, he sounds happy, not upset. "I don't think so, sweetheart."
"Even if he couldn't," she answers, skeptical, because she knows he so totally could, "I could." She turns back to the bar, then looks over her shoulder and gives him a fake sweet smile like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. "And don't call me sweetheart."
The smile he gives her now is wider, more genuine, lights up his whole face, and for a second he reminds her of Sam, the way Sam's smile is like sunlight breaking through clouds, and how when she first met him, she'd had to work hard for it, but it was a reward well worth the effort.
The guy tips his bottle in salute, drains it, and swaggers away like he didn't just get shot down.
Jess shakes her head. Guys are so weird.
When Sam finally arrives, an hour later, she doesn't mention it, would have forgotten it already (the memory is already fuzzy from all the free shots, and it will only get worse as the night goes on; in the morning, she won't remember much at all) except her friends won't shut up about the guy. Krissy spills the story breathlessly, so amused that she's not even jealous that the guy didn't look her way once. When she's done, Sam freezes for a split second, and then laughs, long and hard.
"You totally could have kicked his ass," he says, and kisses her, with love and laughter and determination, everything they are together, and it's the best birthday present he could give her.
***
Dean waits in the car, watching, until Sam arrives. He's tempted to go over, say hello, say something, anything, but he doesn't. He hates to admit it, even to himself, but he isn't sure how Sam would react. Or maybe it's that he's too sure of how Sam will react, and it wouldn't be well. He's not sure which is worse.
Sam strolls into the bar like he owns the joint, like he knows he's got a gorgeous woman waiting inside, and Dean feels a small burst of warmth in his chest--pride, love, or some combination of the two. He watches the door for a long time before he takes off.
He's miles away when his phone rings. He flips it open to hear laughter, and then, "Happy birthday, man. And she could so totally kick your ass." Sam hangs up before Dean can say anything, but Dean thinks it may be the best birthday present he's ever gotten.
end
*
12/13/06
***
I love feedback like a kid loves birthday cake.
***